


Les Pantins Danset

by ifuckboyswhofuckgirls (cadmiumredvulpini)



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Jon Snow Knows Nothing, M/M, Rape, Robb is oblivious, Sibling Incest, Somnophilia, Theon being a creepy rapist, dildo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 22:14:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21596410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cadmiumredvulpini/pseuds/ifuckboyswhofuckgirls
Summary: Jon’s asleep. Theon’s horny. There’s a clay dildo, shirtless scenes in the armory, a fight, and an explicit lack of consent.Half of it is sex, if you’re into that.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Robb Stark, Theon Greyjoy/Jon Snow
Comments: 10
Kudos: 54





	Les Pantins Danset

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this more than a year ago and would like to return to writing. If this was worth anyone’s time hey i might continue lest I rework this into a oneshot. Thanks and tell me if you liked it—yeah, my writing’s pretty shoddy.
> 
> Disclaimer: please do not let this work inspire your human interactions outside of fandom or fiction. Rape-trysts (love that word-combo) are bad.

A pungent smell of chlorine permeated through the air. Jon was fast asleep lying on his back, legs apart, a blanket thrown over himself futilely, covering only his middle part, partially obscuring the trail of dark hair that ran down his middle across his navel.

Theon scowled—he hadn’t had his usual trip to the brothel in weeks ever since news of the King’s arrival in Winterfell had arrived, and had missed his chance last night having been stuck tidying up in the armoury. And to make matters worse, come this gloomy, rainy morning, he was being sent to get the bastard to enjoin him in the morning’s activities, and finding him like this in the early hours of the day didn’t help assuage his festering mood.

He turned to leave to tell Robb of his bastard brother’s disarray when something glinted a pale red by the foot of the bed. Theon cocked his head looking at it, the mysterious thing catching the faint, greyish sunlight from the castle window—it was a long pill-shaped instrument, utterly plain and made of polished clay, and yet covered in oil, staining the fabric of the sheets around it.

Theon laughed, comprehending its use. He stepped towards it and picked it up, unperturbed by the slickness but mildly surprised by its hefty weight—and size. Theon would admit it was comparably bigger than his cock, mayhaps just as fat but unrealistically longer. It felt like a sword hilt in his hand, with small recesses at the other end to enhance the grip, and just as thick and heavy. The bastard had been using this? He’d always felt something was off with this one—

Jon stirred, shifting the sheet on his body. He had turned the opposite direction of Theon, half on his belly, exposing his backside and the evidence of the clay dildo’s use made itself apparent in the sore marks and slick muscles of Jon’s ass, plump and ripe around the cleavage of his asshole, tender where a small trail of oil followed a path down from inside him to pool in a crease near Theon.

He stepped back quietly, but realizing the bastard hadn’t woken, he gazed at the apex of Jon’s white thighs, gripping the clay dildo in his hand. He didn’t like the bastard much, they were only similar in their station as outcasts in the castle, but Theon was a prince, and Jon was the son of a whore. He should’ve expected that Jon would be a deviant, and would crave that depraved carnality. In the Iron Islands—

He hadn’t thought of what his kinsmen’s judgement of such men were in the archipelago—in the North, men had it repressed and cured otherwise they faced the blade or the black. Even here in the frigid North, however, Theon was a prince of the Iron Islands still, where men did what they pleased and the prince would do whoever he would please.

And on the other hand, he thought, he hadn’t been to the brothel in a good while and a hole was a hole, and besides, he would be doing Jon a favor. To be fucked by a prince! Not every bastard has such privilege, not even all the whores—just Ros and a few others. It would be an elevation to his station.

He barred the heavy wooden door behind him slowly, and crawled onto Jon’s bed, creaking slightly under his weight. He was careful not to let the oil in the crease trail down to the dip in the mattress his knees had created. He held the object in his hand, spat on it just to make sure it was slick enough and slowly, testily, he held the dildo up to Jon’s entrance.

Jon didn’t stir, and after a heartbeat Theon prodded it against his hole, slightly stretched as Jon still had his legs apart. It slipped inside with little difficulty, and Jon only breathed a little heavier, and then Theon felt him clench a little around the clay pill. Feeling some resistance, Theon put a hand to the cheek of the bastard’s ass and pushed a little more, and this time Jon stirred, pushing himself towards the dildo, his ass spreading apart, and released a long breath that ended in a moan when Theon simultaneously pushed.

Theon grew hard, his cock was struggling against his breeches now—seeing the bastard defile himself, seeing himself defile the bastard while he was asleep... it sent blood rushing south, south, south where the defilers and the deviants descended into their depravity. He took a deep breath, and pushed even further, and Jon only moaned a little more, stirring only slightly. Theon hardened even more, if it was still remotely possible.

He felt Jon still clenching and trying to loosen up, eyes locked, and already Theon was surprised at how much he could take—how long has the bastard been doing this? Had he expended the large wax candles of the castle to prepare himself for this clay instrument? It was almost three quarters in, already as long as Theon’s cock and yet still he wanted more, so Theon pushed.

“Oh, fuck yes...” Jon moaned, then began moving slightly, fucking himself on the dildo. Theon was swelling impossibly hard, watching Jon lewdly fuck himself as he held the dildo. He felt a little of himself escape his cock as he began moving the dildo to Jon’s rhythm as well.

Jon hummed, eyes still closed, mouth shutting and then forming an O-shape in complete silence, then shutting once more. “Mmm...” Theon’s eyes stayed on his face, watching for the tiniest clue of him waking, but only saw his dreamlike smile then, features contorting in pleasure. He couldn’t bear take his eyes off, but the swell of Jon’s ass was such a distraction... full and bouncing on his hand... his fingers were starting to meet Jon’s ass, fingertips just barely brushing his perineum now. Theon had had enough, he kneeled on the bed, and using his other hand slipped his sticky, hot, cock out of his breeches and stroked its length once only. He let out a soft moan... and gripped his fat cock at the base, trying to restrain himself. He tore his eyes off of Jon to search for lubrication—aha, a bottle of oil, and there it was, sitting behind him on the bedside table, uncovered. He slowly slipped the dildo out and reached for the bottle of oil when—

Jon began whimpering loudly, evidently distressed by the sudden emptiness, and he began reaching behind him, shifting backwards looking for the dildo.

For fear of him waking up, Theon quickly slicked himself up and down, coating his length liberally with the oil. This hard, he was already dripping with his own precum. He kneeled on the bed once more positioning himself when Jon, still reaching backwards, grabbed his cock in a vise-like grip, slipping the first time and gripping it once more by the base, pulled it towards his hungry hole.

Theon moaned, then put a hand to his mouth. Jon was fucking himself with his cock. Jon squeezed his head as he pushed inside, moaning as well.

Gods, Jon was hot, wet and tight, arguably tighter than the whores at the brothel. He shifted closer, pushing deeper into Jon who only moaned and reared into Theon’s cock. 

“Oh fuck, Snow...” Theon exhaled as his cock sank balls deep into the bastard, skin slapping softly against skin. He was so close, so close... he testily put a hand on Jon’s hip, and when he didn’t stir he put both of his hands on Jon and angled him so that he was now full on his belly, face buried in a pillow; muffling his moans. Theon first began fucking Jon in slow, careful motions, then, having found his rhythm with Jon’s desperate rutting, he held him by the hips and fucked him hard and fast, both of their breaths laboring, coming in quick bursts.

“Fuck, yes...” Theon moaned, hitting Jon somewhere deep and warm, clenching impossibly tight around his cock. Jon was rutting, whining as he impaled himself on Theon’s fat cock. Theon was close... he gripped Jon’s hips tighter, bruisingly tight, and pulled him on his cock. 

“Fuck Snow, yes, fuck yes...” he was getting close, he could feel his body beginning to collapse as he fucked Jon harder and harder, and in one final slap, buried deep into Jon, he came, body shuddering as he bowed towards Jon, who was now almost crying, whining softly as his prostate was met with Theon’s come. Finally falling on top of Jon, tremors still rocking his body as his stomach met the small of Jon’s back, he could smell Jon then, warm and slightly of sweat, of melted snow and a faint, fragrant char, like he’d burned down a forest the night before.

As he was riding the last waves of his orgasm, he felt Jon sigh contentedly, clenching around him one last time, the world slowly sinking back into color as vestiges of other sensations and confused feelings aroused him… the slick wetness on his knees where he had knelt on the pool of oil that deposited on the sheets, the sticky cum slowly leaking out of Jon’s hole, the sweat dripping and falling in droplets onto Jon’s face, Jon’s strong, naked body beneath him. Jon cried one name, however, indecipherable and lost in the feathers of his pillow.

—

“Robb!”

Theon marched into the armoury, to help Robb prepare the blunts for training, eyes carefully avoiding the glinting grips and hilts of the steel, iron and clay practice swords. He stopped abruptly, catching his breath, when Robb answered, straightening his back as he debated slipping on a leather guard and tunic for this morning’s training routine.

“Theon,” Robb responded, eyes examining Theon up and down, whose demeanor was markedly different from his festering mood earlier in the morning. Although he looked stressed, still, an air of calm lay over a peculiar but distinct sense of uneasiness. Mayhaps he had just fucked with another bastard or scullery maid, or both. “You missed breakfast entirely, went out to eat someone else perhaps?”

“I was sent to check up on your  brother .” Nevermind the emphasis, Robb noted, then asked. 

“And in that time it had taken for the rain to change its mind, it had not crossed your mind to change out of your soiled breeches?” The tip of the blunt sword gestured towards Theon’s knees, which were stained dark with a clear liquid. Robb tutted. “Haste, Theon, does not a prince make.” 

Theon scowled, to Robb’s amusement. “You jest now,” Theon started, but then a stray thought crossed his mind. He didn’t decide against it, and in one swift stroke, pulled a wooden sword from its scabbard and swung it out at Robb, pushing him through the open door of the armoury into the courtyard as he parried.

“You nasty fucker!” Robb cried, eyes small in laughter and the struggle to hold off Theon’s sword which threatened to lick at his neck. His arm won out and sent Theon’s sword astray, then made an attack that made its way towards Theon’s exposed stomach, but Theon was quicker, and moved past the redhead and aimed for his knees. Robb, not expecting the surprise attack, fell to his knees in a puddle.

Theon’s day, frankly, was not about to get any better than his rape-tryst with the bastard, for the redhead matron of the North had decided to choose that moment to emerge from the castle into the now-present sunshine. She scolded Theon with nary more than a glance, and then helped Robb up to send him to his room to change. Theon, once more, scowled and sent himself to the armoury to polish more steel, while Robb, almost by the ear, was dragged out of the courtyard.

While no one minded the Warden of the North’s son as he made his way up to his chambers, the sight of his soiled knees only sought the attention of two individuals, namely a scullery made who had discovered Theon skulking outside Jon’s quarters, and Jon Snow himself, who had the most arduous vestige of a smile on his permanently pouting lips—the closest to one Robb had ever seen of him. Jon had almost passed him by without more than a glance, then did a double take at his knees, to which Robb only answered a weak laugh. Jon quipped with “training was surely fun, eh?” with a tone he had not heard his brother make before, low, almost sultry, like it was a dirty joke addressed to one in a bar—not like Robb would ever know.

Robb, in his best imitation of the low, sultry drawl, playing along with his brother, replied. “But we’ve only just begun, brother.”

Jon had a look of surprise, but maintained his glare at Robb, smirking. He looked as if he were about to lean in and whisper something to Robb, when the aforementioned scullery maid crossed the hall, observing the two. Robb had thought of it differently, and told Jon. “That maid better learn her manners, not to address either of us.”

Jon left, then, for the training yard, and Robb into his chambers without thinking much else of that encounter.

—

The sun had now risen fully, it was now noon—and the sun had turned the weather outside bearable, but in the armoury, where the cold left as quickly as it spread in the absence of the sun. Theon minded the heat and wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, while Jon, at first, did not.

“Greyjoy,” Jon said casually, a slight lilt in his voice from his encounter with his brother—both, from early in the morning in the hallway, and even earlier, in his chambers. He addressed Theon with a nod in his direction, but aside from that, not much else, as he proceeded to polish the hilt of one of the practice swords, while awaiting Robb for training. 

Theon was nonplussed. Nothing? Nothing from the bastard? Not even the slightest gratitude for his grace and his fervor for this mornings events? The boy had practically begged for it, from the moment he left himself in disarray, nude and on display for anyone to enter. Theon would fathom he would even let his father fuck him, seeing as he must bear some resemblance with the whore he calls his mother, would even let the princeling future lord of Winterfell Robb fuck him. The thought did nothing for him, not even as a glimpse crossed his mind’s eye, of a redhead princeling with his pale skin and strong arms, of a black-haired bastard and his ivory skin and plump, fat ass, legs apart in wanton depravity. Nothing, Theon was convinced, registered in his breeches.

That was until, mindless of Theon’s internal struggle to think nothing more of his one-time foray into deviance, Jon had stripped his shirt, strong muscles casting shadows across his pale, pale skin. The heat of the armory, while bearable and did not necessitate swear nor the removal of one’s shirt, seemed to make Jon want to take off his, as if he wanted to bask in it. Theon could see where the bruised blue scorch marks of where he had gripped Jon, just above the waistband of his breeches. He shook his head, then proceeded to stroke—polish, rather—the hilt of the sword before him. Jon did not spare him a look, nothing, but instead continued to sprawl the armoury in search of another sword to polish. He had found one, just behind Theon, pulled it from its place and brushed Theon’s arm, the lightest of touches, with his own. Theon’s head snapped in his direction, but the touch did not even register to Jon.

Theon almost fumed. What was this game this bastard was playing? He watched as he continued to polish the sword with an odd expression on his face, one of utter nonchalance, and it infuriated the Ironborn. Moments later, however, he decided he would play it as well.

The heat had not gotten to him as it had Jon, apparently, but Theon resigned to strip off his shirt as well, to put himself on display. He did so as slowly as possible, dragging the fabric of his tunic across his skin in a laconic pace, eyes locked on Snow’s, which did not rise from the sword length he was now wiping. When the shirt was now fully off Theon, having solicited not even a glance from the bastard, he grunted, both in vexation and in an effort to call the brunette’s attention.

Nothing. He grunted again, which elicited no response from the other man. “Is there anything on my shirt, Snow?” Theon asked, moving to his side and feigning looking at his side, and then his other side, and then his front, his crotch pushed out, shape almost traceable through the fabric of his breeches, his under-appreciated member now almost as angry and red as he himself was.

Jon looked up, then with hardly a change of tone in his nonchalance said. “You have no shirt on, Greyjoy.” He said the word Greyjoy as if it had the same meaning as dumbass. He then proceeded to continue in his effort in polishing the sword that stubbornly refused to lose its dullness, turning in a direction slightly away from the Ironborn now.

Theon fumed, picked up his shirt where it lay hanging on one of the scabbards, then stormed out the door. Jon only regarded his heated exit with a nod and a furrowing of his thick brows in confusion, then watched as Robb entered the room with the same expression. Jon visibly brightened. He straightened his back and gave Robb his best attempt at anything other than the brooding look which had seemed to be fixed on his face.

He  had succeded. “Is anything the matter, brother?” Robb said the word this time without a lilt in his voice at all, humorlessly, as if he had meant that word. Jon had grown to hate that filial reminder with a burning hatred. That word that would forever bar him from entering Robb’s life as anything more than the bastard brother. Not like being anything other than Ned Stark’s bastard would do him any favors, but the word had both formed the bond that he craved for Robb and created the deep crevice that he might never cross.

But this morning, he had made the leap.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks! Kudos and comment if you made it this far.
> 
> Oh and maybe tell me where I can improve. I haven’t written in a long while and I thought I could learn from this thing I wrote a year ago. Thanks again


End file.
